


My One, My Only

by SweetSorcery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Comfort/Angst, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Male Slash, Psychology, Rough Sex, Slash, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madmen have such schemes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My One, My Only

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All canon referred to within belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. Inc., and possibly others. Non-canon bits were created for non-profit, non-infringement entertainment.
> 
> Archiving: Nowhere except here, and not in translated form either.
> 
> Author's Notes: This was written in January 2007.

There were those who said that Harry had gone mad, after the final battle, and no wonder. _Those_ included everyone who knew him.

Harry knew better. It might be puzzling to his friends that he did a vanishing act every Saturday night, only to turn up Sunday morning, looking exhausted and pale. But it had nothing to do with his being mad, Harry was sure of that.

There were reasons, of course, why eventually even Hermione stopped hassling him about it. For one thing, he deserved to be left alone when he asked to be left alone, having spent the first 20 years of his life under the constant shadow of a dark lord and a by turns worshipping and suspicious wizarding world. For another, it was clear that Harry was no longer intact - he was depressed and completely removed from life, and the only time he participated in it at all was on Sundays, following his temporary disappearance. If anyone wanted to speak to him, they knew to do it then, or be rebuked by a wall of apathy. The rest of the week, Harry was a recluse, hiding inside 12 Grimmauld Place and living, no - existing, off his fortune.

Harry took great pains to cover his tracks when he left home on Saturdays. He never went out at the exact same time, and he never apparated from the same spot, and he certainly never apparated _to_ the same spot, although he always ended up in the vicinity of the same affluent square in muggle London. He never wore the same cloak, but he always pulled the hood up over his head to shadow his face.

His final destination was always the same, however, and the moment he stood in front of the entrance to the magically obscured building, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and entered through the wards keyed specifically to his magical signature, allowing no one else in and - more importantly as far as Harry was concerned - allowing no one _out_.

He descended into the basement of the abandoned Georgian house, where he removed yet more wards on a simple wooden door before slipping inside, renewing the barriers behind him right away.

"Back so soon?" came a silky voice from across the large, sparsely furnished room. It was the old kitchen, which through the ages must have bustled with activity - cooks and kitchen maids and butlers rushing to a fro, preparing meals for their highborn employers upstairs. All that was left now were dented cookware, quaint crockery, a few bits of comfortable but decaying furniture... and ghosts.

Harry swallowed and spoke into the darkness. "It's Saturday."

"The weeks pass quickly. Is that something you're doing to me?" asked the voice.

Harry spelled the candleholders around the room alight. "Yes." He took in the pale, serious figure sitting on the single sofa in the room. "Do you mind?"

"Strangely enough, I don't. I have no desire to be fully aware of the passage of time."

"That's what I thought." When a snort was Harry's only answer, he added, "You know I can't let you go. It's too dangerous. Even if you're--"

"Even if I'm essentially a squib now? Worse than a muggle." Long arms were crossed over a narrow chest, the worn elbows of the grey jumper stretching almost to tearing point. "Not only have you taken my magic from me, but you've left me with the memory of what it was like to have it."

Harry huffed angrily. "I haven't taken anything from you. You started this bloody war! And before you ask me yet again - no, I won't obliviate you."

"Oh yes." The young man on the worn sofa uncrossed his long legs and sneered at Harry. "That would be _wrong_ , wouldn't it? Quite unlike using a half-hearted Avada Kedavra on me. Quite unlike keeping what's left of me as a result of it prisoner." He raised a curved brow mockingly. "Your own personal prisoner, no less."

Harry groaned softly, wishing they didn't always have to argue, going over the same things again and again. Wishing he could just leave the bastard here to rot, rather than to feel compelled to _visit_ and put them both through this once a week. "It's cold in here. Why don't you light the fire?" He did so with a simple spell, and it roared to life.

"No magic, if you recall," his prisoner reminded him, shifting closer to the warmth and holding out his bony fingers towards it.

"Everything's here to start a fire by hand." When Harry received a disgusted sneer in response, he looked around the vast kitchen, taking note of some empty boxes and dirty dishes. "You're not too snobby to prepare the food I leave you."

"That's a matter of survival. I will not engage in manual labour."

"You will once winter starts properly," Harry said coldly. "If you want to live, that is."

"Perhaps I'll get over the desire to survive by then."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed the space between his brows, suddenly tired of everything. A sigh came from across the room, startling him.

"Keep your eyes open, Harry. The occasional mouse and cockroach aside, they're the only spark of life I see in here." And after a pause. "Please."

Harry's eyes flew open. The surprise of that plea from Tom Riddle of all people was enough to put Harry off-guard, and only when he found Tom standing right in front of him, only then did he realize the man had moved and crossed the room in an instant. On instinct, he pressed himself back against the door through which he had entered, his own magic buzzing along his spine where it rested against the warded wood.

"Do you enjoy keeping me prisoner?" Tom asked. When Harry narrowed his eyes at him, he smirked. "Be honest. I know you have no choice, for now. But do you get some satisfaction out of having me dependant on you? Does it make up, just a little, for all the years I've made your life a misery?"

Harry stared at Tom, breathing hard. "I don't know. Maybe. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes?" Tom leaned forward a little, his hands resting flat against the door above Harry's shoulders. The wards did not appear to affect him negatively. "Sometimes what, Harry?"

Harry kept staring at him, then a slightly hysterical laugh escaped him. "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm still here. For all I know, I died in the final battle, like you... like your alter ego." He shivered. "I don't have any reason to think I'm still alive."

Tom frowned. "What - no satisfaction about winning? Pride that you got the better of me? Fear of me at least?"

"Nothing," Harry said blandly. When Tom merely continued to stare at him, he added, "I cut myself the other day, and didn't even notice it until I was bleeding everywhere. And even then, it didn't hurt." When Tom didn't interrupt, Harry continued, "I don't really talk to anyone except you anymore - proof that I'm barking mad, of course."

A slight smile on Tom's face tightened something in Harry's chest momentarily, but the sensation was so brief, he decided he'd imagined it. "People give me presents for killing you, medals even, and throw parties in my honour." He snickered. "I tried to get drunk so I'd have a good time, but as it turns out, I can drink like a fish without feeling any different. I don't even get drunk enough to be tempted to tell them--"

"That I'm not quite as dead as they think I am?" Tom smiled nastily. "Or that their hero is my last remaining horcrux, the last precious little piece of my soul, faithfully, if reluctantly, keeping me alive in this charming prison of his?"

Harry's breathing sped up, and he didn't know whether it was outrage or fear or disgust at this bizarre co-dependency of theirs. "Shut up," he snapped. "I didn't ask for this."

"Poor Harry," Tom mocked.

Harry glowered at him. "And I'm not asking for your pity either."

"What _are_ you asking of me?" Tom's voice sounded calm as he tilted his head, seemingly indulging Harry.

A list of requests raced through Harry's mind: death, peace, a fight, something to make him feel alive. Anything... Before he could think about it, he tilted up his chin and kissed Tom, fully expecting - even hoping - to be propelled back against the door with enough force to break his neck. Then everything would be over - they both would be. And he wouldn't have to decide how, and when, and if, to dispose of his nemesis, and himself in the process.

But Tom had never allowed anything to be easy. His hands tightened on Harry's shoulders, thumbs digging painfully into Harry's collarbones as he took control of the kiss, tearing it from less experienced lips.

Harry's shock lasted only a moment, but when he began to struggle, he inadvertently rubbed himself against Tom, then groaned into the mouth devouring him when he felt Tom harden against his thigh.

"Life, Harry," Tom gasped against his lips. "That's what you want. What we both want." And then he kissed Harry again. He pushed his hands into Harry's hair, winding his fingers around dark strands as he forced his tongue into the slack mouth.

"Mmph... no!" Harry mumbled, then negated his own refusal by softening his lips against Tom's, and when his responsiveness caused a low, pleased growl to rumble through Tom's chest, Harry wrapped his arms around the body pressing him into the door. And it felt so good, so warm, so... real.

They kissed for long minutes, before Harry bit down on Tom's bottom lip hard enough to cause a hiss of pain and panted, "This is wrong!"

"Everything we do is wrong, Harry." Tom was undeterred. His breathing was fast and irregular. "We need this. We're all either of us has left."

Harry whimpered, wishing he could deny it. Instead, he gasped, "I should have died as well."

Tom breathed something that sounded like 'don't' against his neck, his tongue like fire on Harry's shivering skin - the touch more intense than anything Harry had felt in his life. Then his lips were at Harry's ear. "Take what I can give you, Harry, and give me some comfort in return."

Harry felt he should be laughing, or perhaps going hysterical, instead he moaned when Tom's hands slipped beneath his shirt, curling around his bare sides. He pushed his hips forward against Tom. "Fuck!" he growled when the hands relocated to the cheeks of his arse and squeezed, just as Tom pressed into him in a way that weakened Harry's knees.

"I should have done _this_ to you, rather than try to kill you." Tom sucked the lobe of Harry's right ear into his mouth to chew on it with unexpected tenderness.

Harry hissed. "Wouldn't have been... half as... uhh... as effective the way you... When you were Voldemort."

Tom bit down hard on the soft tissue, chuckling when Harry shuddered in pleasure rather than to protest the pain. "But I'm different now. And so are you."

"Ungh," Harry agreed, arching his neck and closing his eyes. His nails dug into Tom's shoulders while a hot tongue lashed the dip at the base of his neck.

"You want to surrender to me, don't you?" Tom breathed hotly against his wet skin.

"Mmm..."

"It's what you need, isn't it? Hero? To give up control, not having to think about what to do, who to please, how to find a spark of something in your empty existence? You want me to take your pain away. Your loneliness."

Tom's hypnotic murmurs had the desired effect, and Harry went limp in his arms. "Yes, God, yes please!"

"Or do you want me at your mercy?" The idea was strangely appealing to Tom.

"You already are," Harry responded, unexpectedly lucid.

Tom conceded the point with a soft chuckle. "And yet, you want to submit to _me_."

Harry groaned, thrusting his hips into Tom's, the promises in the melodic voice riling him up. "I want you to fuck me hard enough to make me _feel_ again."

They both stilled at once, the words hanging heavy and much, much too honestly between them. Their eyes met - wide in surprise but dark with need.

"If that's what you want," Tom rasped, his eyes not leaving Harry's even while his hands moved to Harry's jeans, tearing open the single button and jerking down the zip carelessly.

Harry remained silent, biting his kiss-swollen lip while holding eye contact. Tom's fingers gentled once they had snaked through the gap in his jeans, and when they slid down inside soft white cotton, Harry closed his eyes with a hiss of pleasure, needing all his willpower to remain on his feet.

Tom smirked at the rapture on Harry's face, stroking him quickly a few times until the shaft in his hand was rock hard and leaking. "On your knees, Harry," he growled.

Blinking his eyes open, Harry stared at him, but it took only a moment for the fury and outrage in his gaze to melt into understanding, and with a sharp nod, he lowered himself to the ground, trying not to wince when Tom's hand let him slip from its grasp and when his knees hit the stone floor.

Tom made quick work of his own trousers and underwear until he could push both just far enough down for his cock to spring free. "Open your pretty mouth, Harry," he ordered huskily.

Harry stared up at him, breathing hard, inhaling Tom's musk as he leaned in. With a purring sound, he let the spongy, seeping head graze his cheek, not sure which of them was more surprised by the gesture.

"Open up," Tom breathed huskily. He reached one hand down into Harry's hair, twisting his fingers there, while resting his forearm against the door behind and above Harry for support. He watched Harry's nostrils flare, the curled lips part, and when he slipped between them, he sighed and shuddered and whispered, "Oh yes..."

Harry hummed around the shaft sliding over his tongue, both the salty taste and veined texture unfamiliar but intoxicating. Just like the fingers in his hair, tips brushing his scalp with unexpected gentleness. He knew Tom might force himself down his throat at any moment, that he might tear his hair as he thrust into his mouth, but Harry didn't care either way. He would take anything to finally not be treated like a damaged saint, or some fragile flower which might shatter if touched. He shivered delightedly when Tom groaned, making an effort to open his throat to the intrusion. He never would have expected something so uncomfortable to turn him on so much. His hand thrust down into his open pants, and he moaned around Tom's cock as he began to stroke himself.

"No!" Tom hissed, staring down at him with fevered eyes.

Harry glared up at him, but withdrew his sticky hand from his underwear to raise it and close it around the base of Tom's cock, squeezing hard in both teasing and retaliation as he let Tom slide out of his mouth a little way, his tongue swirling around and dipping into the slit.

"Harry!" His name was breathed in a way no one had ever done before, and Harry faltered for a moment, doing nothing but holding Tom there, staring up at him.

A slow smile curled Tom's lips. When he pulled back, slipping from Harry's mouth despite the reluctant groan and Harry's attempt to cling to him and keep him there, he drew a string of moisture across Harry's bottom lip. "You look beautiful like that," he murmured, shuddering when Harry tilted his head and stuck out his tongue to lash the tip of his cock.

Harry was dizzy with Tom's taste, fighting a kind of panic when it was taken from him, but when Tom fell to his knees in front of him, putting them level again, he gasped, staring at him expectantly.

Tom smirked, pulling and tugging at his clothes until Harry was wearing nothing but his shirt and socks. Then he pushed his own clothes down past his hips and gripped Harry's buttocks in both hands. "Do you want me to be careful?" he asked while positioning Harry across his thighs.

Harry gulped. "No."

"Are you certain?"

Breathing hard, his thigh muscles protesting the crouching position, Harry nodded his head.

"Say a lubrication spell anyway," Tom advised, then bit his lip, the temptation to thrust straight through the small opening teasing the tip of his cock almost overwhelming.

Harry reluctantly obeyed, and the words had barely left his mouth when Tom pulled him down and pushed up into him at once. And Harry screamed - less in pain than in a kind of shocked, horrified surprise. And then he felt laughter bubbling up inside him, and he knew that no matter how bizarre and utterly mad it was for him to start laughing in this situation, Tom would somehow understand. So he allowed it, hysterical with a mix of pleasure and self-disgust, shaking with laughter while Tom gripped his hips tightly and thrust up into him.

Harry's upper back and shoulder hit the door behind him each time Tom pounded into him, and slowly, Harry's laughter abated, the pain of it giving way to the relief of tears welling up in his eyes for the first time since the final battle. He met Tom's eyes, hands keeping him still for a moment, holding him suspended while a whimper forced its way from his throat.

"Let it go, Harry," Tom whispered.

Harry started crying in earnest then, cathartic tears rolling down his cheeks while he sobbed helplessly. Sobbed his pain away while Tom wrapped his arms around his middle and turned them from the door to lower Harry to a threadbare rug, not breaking their connection.

Harry's tear-filled eyes stared up at Tom, who was above him now, sliding in and out, his rhythm less punishing and gentler with each thrust, and when his last tear had slipped from the corner of his eye, Harry took a shaky breath and whispered, "Please."

Tom held his eyes, pulled almost all the way out, then slid in again slowly, tenderly, before leaning down to kiss the salty tears from Harry's cheek.

And Harry came with a sound of wonder on his lips, followed a moment later by Tom's quiet, shuddering release deep inside him. And for an instant, Harry felt as if there was a flutter of magic - renewing magic - around them which did not originate within himself.

The floor was cold underneath Harry, the fringed rug offering little protection, but Tom was warm above him. And when he rolled off and pulled Harry into his arms, sharing both the warmth and cold with him, Harry sighed exhaustedly, his cheek against Tom's chest. He knew all the things he _should_ be feeling, self-hatred at the top of the list. Instead, he felt at peace for the first time since the final battle. He couldn't pull away when long fingers combed through his hair and soft lips pressed against his temple. Instead, he shifted closer.

"Shall I tell you why I want immortality, Harry?" Tom murmured against his skin. "I love life. I want it to go on and on, because there are so many things I want to do. So many things I... want." He held Harry tighter. "Such as you, my one and only horcrux..."

Harry thought about this, trying not to be distracted by Tom's warmth around him. But... why shouldn't he be? He had a right to be held. And to hold. Tom did, more than ever, belong to him. " _I_ am your life now. And yours is mine. You're in my hands." He whispered his strange thoughts out loud exactly as they came to him. And when Tom didn't contradict him, and Harry realised the implication of that, he smiled. "If I had a reason to live, immortality might not be so bad."

Tom chuckled, then purred into his ear, "I'll make it sweeter than you could possibly imagine."

 

THE END


End file.
